


surf's up, sylvain

by nayt0reprince



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Beach Episode, Humor, M/M, One-Shot, Pre-Relationship, Rated M for language, Semi-Wingman Ingrid, Sylvain's Bisexual Awakening, modern day AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:20:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25390756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nayt0reprince/pseuds/nayt0reprince
Summary: a day trip to the beach unveils a well-kept secret to sylvain: the absolute hotness of one ignatz victor.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Ignatz Victor
Comments: 6
Kudos: 66





	surf's up, sylvain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hyakunana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyakunana/gifts).



> hi so uh that summer banner in fe:h eh? eh? the world wasn’t ready for ignatz and frankly I am not surprised. modern-esque au one-shot. pls enjoy! for polux, who continues to feed the sylvnatz agenda

Sweltering temperatures capping broken thermometers deigns to give a brilliant idea to the melted remains that comprise Sylvain’s brain: _Hey, let’s go hit the beach._ It’s summer. Summer demands at least _one_ trip to the sea, to sprawl out on the glittering sand, to chat sweetly to honies-of-the-hour over colorful fruity drinks while seeking shade beneath large rainbow umbrellas. And so, with a flimsy imitation of his own voice oozing from his lips like drunken slugs, he says,

“Hey, s’go to the _beach._ ”

“You just want to see us in swimsuits,” Ingrid deadpans, swatting the eighth mosquito who chose the wrong place to land that day. 

“Whaaaaat? Noooo,” he drawls, using his foot to nudge the electric fan in his direction. “My northern blood needs to remember what ‘cold’ means. And the AC’s broken. C’mon.” He nudges her with his other foot, toes poking into her hip. She scowls. “ _C’mon,_ Ingrid, you’re the only one with a legal driver’s license, take us to the _beach._ Please? Pretty please? Pretty please with cherries on top? Look,” he amps the charm to one hundred, which means he has a 0.0001 percent chance that his tactics will work, “I’ll wash the dishes for a whole week. A whole _week._ ”

She quirks an eyebrow, but the thin line stretching her lips shows he needs to sweeten the pot a little bit.

“Two weeks?” he amends, wiggling his big toe against her side. She sighs, exasperated, before slapping his foot away.

“Will it make you stop whining?”

“I promise I will not whine for forty-eight hours,” he says so sincerely that anyone else might buy it, but this is Ingrid, and Ingrid knows better. Still, thanks to the wingman named “Unbearable Heat,” her resolve falters visibly in the twitch of her brow. She’s from up north, too. She hates summer this far south as much as he does, but Fodlan University decided some stupid amount of years ago to settle close to the equator. And given their situations back home, he and none of their friends decided to head back, staying in the overpriced apartment with a broken AC instead.

She sighs again. Wipes the beading sweat off her forehead with her arm. Eyes Syvlain, preemptive regret flickering in her irises, before rising to her feet.

“Fine,” she concedes, “let’s go to the beach.”

*

It doesn’t take a whole lot of effort to convince the rest of their friends to come with, each one itching for an excuse to seek refuge someplace cooler that isn’t a recipe guideline for how hot the skillet should be to fry your eggs sunny side-up. Even Ashe, perpetually clothed in ratted sweatshirts, shucked it in favor of a tank top. The universe must be ending, Sylvain concludes, but at least it’ll end on a somewhat pleasant note. His scolded soles propel him the length of the beach’s sand as he lunges into the water, embraced by the sweet, bitter chills of an ocean that never gets the memo of, _hey, it’s hot out, wanna be hot, too?_

Perfect.

He emerges seconds later, red locks sticking to his forehead, and laughs when Dimitri trips over something mid-run and lands face-first into the water. Deduce helps him up and offers his bright orange floaties for better protection, much to Dimitri’s growing embarrassment. Felix refuses to budge from underneath an umbrella, glare faltering when Annette brings him a melon pop. Mercedes, sporting a sunhat overflowing with flowers, lays out a towel to sunbathe, while Ingrid and - Sylvain blinks - _Dorothea_ walk and talk along the water’s edge.

He supposes he isn’t the first to come up with his genius plan, after all. Several other friend groups sprawl out along the lengths of the beach, and _wow,_ if Hilda wasn’t smoking before, then _damn_ she sure is now. He almost whistles at the sight of her and Claude walking arm-in-arm, their drinks sloshing with every step, their eyes matching one another’s mischievous glints. What confidence. Totally rocking it. He’ll need to ask for a selfie with them later.

His gaze shifts towards the back of the beach, and is unsurprised at the cluster of shyer folks huddling in the shadows. Marianne ( _wow, what a cutie, when did that happen?_ ) and Lysithea both have books in their hands. Linhardt, as usual, naps while Bernadetta does her best impersonation of a brick wall. At last, his eyes land on a propped canvas and someone still wearing his normal clothes. 

It takes a moment, but the name eventually clicks in his head: _Right. Ignatz._

He’d seen the awkward guy sketching on a tablet in the dining hall once or twice, but they hardly ever spoke to one another. They _did_ share an art history class together back in Sylvain’s second year; Ignatz’s vast fountain of knowledge regarding key historical artists bubbled from his usually timid lips, those dopey brown eyes lighting up whenever the professor allowed him a chance to speak. In truth, Sylvain probably learned more from Ignatz than the half-wasted teacher who never knew how to pull up her powerpoint presentations.

He purses his lips. _Dude’s got the constitution of a champion, wearing long-sleeves in this heat,_ he thinks first. Then: _Wait, he actually looks like he’s sweating bullets._ And finally: _I gotta get this guy into the water for his sake before he gets friggin’ heat stroke - we’re at the beach, man! Put down the brush!_

With great reluctance, he pulls himself away from the mistress of the sea and meanders by (and gives a cheeky wink to) a few ladies smiling at him. Yeah, he knows he’s hot. He’s worked for it. He gives them a brief wave, almost forgetting his self-imposed mission, then continues on his trek to Operation: Get This Four Eyes Out Of The Heat.

Ignatz doesn’t even acknowledge his visitor of the hour, his tongue sticking out as his brush curves along the canvas. Sylvain raises an eyebrow and takes a peek: the ocean, the crash of waves, the shadows of bodies, a gull standing on jutting rocks in the foreground with each feather so delicately crafted that he almost thinks it’s real. _Damn._ He whistles, and Ignatz _squawks,_ shocked out of his hyper-focused reverie. 

“You’re really good, you know that?” Sylvain leans forward at the canvas, head tilting in observation. “Looks like you’re borrowing techniques from Juan Fostere. Love that linework.”

“Um,” Ignatz babbles, glasses askew, “uh. Thank you?”

“Sure. Hey, did you _also_ know you look ready to keel over at any second?” He quirks an eyebrow at the sweater and khakis Ignatz wore. “Your dedication’s great and all, but you can’t be painting masterpieces if summer kills you. C’mon, wanna take a break with me and challenge Claude and his right-hand woman to a splash fight?”

The heat-addled gears of Ignatz’s brain clunks visibly in his eyes. It takes a beat or five, but at last, he says, “What?”

“Wow, you’re in greater dire straits than I thought. Those zip off, yeah?” Sylvain points to the zippers on Ignatz’s pants around the knees. “Get yourself more comfortable, loosen up a bit. You’re at the _beach._ Use it.”

“It’s not - I mean,” Ignatz sets down his brush, eyes darting about, “I get sunburned easily, and the best way to protect yourself is to wear long sleeves.”

“Ever heard of ‘sunscreen?’ Nifty-keen invention dating back about eighty years ago, so I’m not surprised if you haven’t.” He smirks, elbows Ignatz’s shoulder, and gestures toward Ingrid. “She’s got plenty. But if you _really_ don’t want to,” he shrugs, “no problem. I’ll just ask someone else to be my partner-in-crime.”

Ignatz’s brow furrows. He looks at the palette in his hands, and then, after a moment’s consideration, sets it down. The sweat on his forehead leaves streaks down the side of his face as he unzips the bottom half of his pants, folding and placing the unnecessary fabrics to one side. He fiddles with the heat of his sweatshirt before peeling it off, revealing yet _another_ long-sleeved shirt.

“How have you not died yet? Genuinely curious.”

“Raphael says when I get in ‘the zone,” I - I kind of forget my own bearings,” Ignatz admits. “Until you approached me, I didn’t even realize I’m burning up.” He rolls up his sleeves and tugs at the bottom of his shirt. “It’s a bad habit of mine -”

And anything else Ignatz says in the next fifteen seconds goes in one of Sylvain’s ears and out the other as the shirt joins the small hill of clothing pooling at their feet. His jaw slackens and his eyebrows lift to the skies while Ignatz wipes the sweat off his brow with his arm. The carved marble statues of Saint Cichol’s riveting abs are _nothing_ compared to the defined bulge of Ignatz’s biceps, to the sharp curve along his back, to his _stunning_ , model-esque figure that no art major this side of the planet has any _right_ to possess. 

“What the fuck _,_ ” Sylvain says aloud.

“I’m - huh? I’m sorry?”

“What the _fuck,_ ” Sylvain says again, lifting one of Ignatz’s arms and squeezing. His expression shifts from disbelief to absolutely flabbergasted. “ _How?_ I _never_ see you at the gym.”

“Did I miss something? I feel like I just missed something. You look angry?”

“No, I’m _flummoxed._ What even _is_ this. How is this possible. Wait, hold still -” He plucks the glasses off Ignatz’s face and feels the assurance of his heterosexuality melt faster than popsicles exposed to direct sunlight. He blinks once. Twice. A third time, just for good measure, just in case his brain is playing tricks on him. Nope. Ignatz is still hot. Those words should not be in the same sentence whatsoever, but here they are, Sylvain ogling like a damn fool. 

“Sylvain?” Ignatz inquires, holding out a hand. “I need those to see.”

Sylvain takes Ignatz’s hand. Wait. He lets go - _get it together, man, holy shit -_ and returns the glasses of incredible deception back in Ignatz’s palm. Ignatz, rightfully so, appears at varyingly different levels of concern as he slips his glasses back on.

“Are... you okay? Did I do something to offend you?”

 _Yes,_ his mind shouts while he replies, “What? No. I’m just - wow. Huh.”

Goddess, he came here to cool down, and now he’s doing anything but. He runs a hand through his salt-encrusted hair and clears his throat.

“Anyways, uh,” he jabs a thumb at the ocean, “ready to kick Claude’s ass?”

“I’m pretty certain we’ll lose,” Ignatz says, still glancing over Sylvain like a mother hen assessing if her baby chick is right in the head. “Before that, though, I’m not kidding about the sunburn thing. Can you help me put some on?”

Oh. Okay. Now Sylvain knows the universe is fucking with him. Numbly, he nods and almost walks right into Mercedes while making his way to Ingrid to ask for some sunscreen. His thoughts buzz akin to cicadas, whizzing from _Holy shit_ to _What the fuck_ and back again, ad nauseam. Ingrid cocks her head to the side and frowns when Sylvain shakes her by her shoulders.

“What’s happened to me,” he demands. “Why is Ignatz _hot._ ”

She stares at him for three seconds too long, then allows her gaze to shift over to where he believes Ignatz is still standing. Her unimpressed look returns to Sylvain. “Because he is. Is there an issue?”

“Yeah, you’re a _lady_ with _taste,_ ” he rambles on, shaking her again. “You said I don’t have taste at all. Something’s _wrong_ here.”

“Congratulations on your newfound bisexual awakening. Get your hands off me.” She bats his knuckles, and he releases her. “Did you actually need something, or can I get back to what I was doing?”

“Uh,” he replies dumbly, then manages, “sunscreen? He says he needs sunscreen. You’ve got some left, right?”

“In my purse,” she says, amusement clear in her voice. “Sylvain.”

“Muh?” he replies ever-so-eloquently while rummaging through her purse.

“Don’t screw this up.” A fleeting smile graces her lips as he pulls out the bottle, instructing to rub the cream over “high contact points” with an SPF of 80, whatever that means. He’s going to die. He’s going to die, and all because of one guy he barely knows being the best-looking person here. All his charm, all his wits, his entire playbook of “how to get laid in twenty minutes (or less)” - gone. The only thing that remains is a tube aching to be smeared on Ignatz’s shoulders.

_I’m fucked. I’m so, so fucked, dude._

“Thank you,” Ignatz says upon Sylvain’s doddering return. “Sorry to ask you for favors like that out of the blue.”

“Don’t stress, man, it’s fine.” It most certainly _isn’t_ fine. What hell did he subject himself to all because he got concerned over someone else’s wellbeing? Didn’t he learn to _not_ do that ages ago? He squeezes some of the sunscreen onto his fingertips and, with great, daunting trepidation, presses his hand onto the small of Ignatz’s back. He swallows hard and works fast to get it over with sooner rather than later, trying not to think about it. He can still recover from - from whatever this is. From this revelation.

“That’s _cold,_ ” Ignatz says, shivering. 

Nope. Nope he most certainly cannot. Sylvain’s hands fumble for a second before resuming his ministrations. His _duties,_ he self-corrects, and rubs the back of Ignatz’s neck and hoping his crush of the day doesn’t notice the faint tremors in his touch. 

He remembers this feeling from once before, when his ten-year-old self developed a crush on a faceless girl who’s name he can no longer remember. It hurt when she moved away, taking the last time he felt something genuine with her. Was she even a girl, now that he thought about it?

“Um - Sylvain, I think that’s good,” Ignatz interjects, blessing Sylvain with a respite from his internal torture. He takes the bottle from Sylvain’s hands and adds more to his face and chest, prompting Sylvain to look away. “We can’t trust that Hilda and Claude will play fair,” he continues seriously, and then Sylvain remembers _Oh, Goddess, he’s going to go into the water with us._ “We’ll have to be sneaky, too.”

“Didn’t take you for a devious guy,” he replies, and he sounds normal enough by all accounts. Good.

“My friend group’s known for pulling pranks and devising incredible plots. After hanging out with them for so long, I think it’s finally beginning to rub off on me.” He gives a sheepish laugh before putting down the sunblock next to his palette. He steps out from underneath the umbrella, and his glasses tint darker - _Are you KIDDING me?!_ “We’ll ask Raphael to borrow his water guns.” 

“Sounds good,” he says, not completely certain of what Ignatz just said. 

Oh boy, he’s really in it now.

Claude’s aloof acceptance of Sylvain’s water-fight invitation almost spelled utter defeat from the moment the water guns are introduced. Hilda hangs back, super soaker resting on her shoulder as she yawns, while Claude maneuvers in waist-high waters with such ease and grace Sylvain wonders if the dude’s part-nymph. Sylvain’s aim isn’t so bad, but compared to _Ignatz?_ He gawks at the precision of every shot; even without his glasses, he hits each target (steadily growing in number with Dimitri’s interest and Felix’s ever-burning desire to prove something) with remarkable ease.

He whistles when Ignatz pelts Edelgard square in the forehead, then laughs when Hubert’s wrath grows tenfold, targeting his relentless attacks on the poor guy just following the newly-crowned commander Lysithea’s orders. Sylvain retaliates, refueling his own water-sniper and, after taking a few steps back, nailing Hubert right in the stomach.

Ignatz looks to him, and _wow,_ he’s still as stunning as before, even with his hair drenched and cheeks splotched red. Hell, he looks even _better,_ and Sylvain won’t mind seeing such an expression perhaps somewhere more private.

“Thanks for the back-up,” he says, grinning, and _oh._ Sylvain misses the fact that Hilda has now roused from her laziness and soaks him senseless right in the face. Water drips from his chin while he rubs the salt out of his stinging eyes, unable to notice that _Ignatz_ is now staring right back at him.

“Silly-nilly,” she coos, reloading, “you _really_ should just watch out for yourself.”

The battle rages on and the rule of “insta-death” is applied thanks to Mercedes’s suggestion. Felix betrays his own team just to lash Dimitri with a well-timed swipe, and Dedue responds with one fist slamming against the water, a cascade showering Felix in revenge. Ashe fakes his death in Ingrid’s arms, who swears vengeance by plotting Lorenz’s imminent “demise.” Flayn, much to her older brother’s dismay, joins the fight and challenges Raphael to a one-on-one duel. It goes as swimmingly as nobody thinks, Raphael clutching his chest with an elaborate death-scene while sinking into the water. Flayn then becomes a monster to be feared, her athleticism in the water on full display as she snipes Hilda and Claude, then Lysithea.

“Whose team are you even _on?_ ” Lysithea sputters.

“My own,” Flayn replies with a devilish glint in her eyes. They land on Ignatz, his eyebrows rise in alarm. “En garde!”

It is in the next three beats Sylvain makes a decision. He submerges himself as Flayn lunges, Ignatz moving desperately to reload. Then, as her forefinger wraps around the trigger, he breaks the surface right behind her and, grabbing the loose bucket floating aimlessly lost by Lorenz, dumps water right over her head.

Time suspends. Flayn gawks. Ignatz blinks.

And then Sylvain is slain by Seteth right in the heart.

“Sylvain!” Ignatz says, watching him totter backward to shallower waters where the other “deaths” watch from the sidelines. “You - you didn’t have to do that!”

“You,” he feigns a cough, clutching at his chest, “you can… pay me back… by giving me your number and a date later.”

“I - _what?_ ”

“Farewell, cruel world,” Sylvain gasps, then flops back into the water. Most of the audience claps. Thank you, thank you, he’ll be here all week internally screaming at his own pathetic pick-up line. Did he seriously just say that? He seriously just said that. He wished he died for real.

Seteth wins by a landslide after that (shocker), spurred by avenging his sister and thereby nulling Sylvain’s “heroic” sacrifice.

Oh well.

*

“Were you serious?”

Sylvain stops mid-motion of packing up the cooler and bringing down their umbrella and glances at Ignatz. His face is red, and his eyes refuse to meet Sylvain’s. His hands are balled into fists, as if steeling all his resolve to inquire the authenticity of Sylvain’s flirtations. He looks to Ingrid, who plays deaf and walks away with their bags back to the car. _Traitor._ He licks his lips and scrounges up the bravery to pull off his playboy smirk.

“And if I was?” he asks, and he sounds much cooler than he feels.

“I,” Ignatz starts, then sighs. His shoulders slump. “I’m not sure what to say,” he continues after a moment. The seagulls nearby squawk amongst themselves to fill in the gaping silence. “I’ve never - um. I’ve never been ‘hit on’ before? So I just. I don’t know what to do now. Yes?”

Yes? Sylvain’s eyes widen. _Yes?_ “You mean -”

“Um.” Ignatz unclenches one fist, a piece of crumpled scrap paper unfurling with sloppy digits written on it. He gifts it to Sylvain, who accepts with great awe. “You asked for my number. So. Uh. Yes.” He nods a few times too much. “I’d - I’d like to try. If you don’t mind. I know you might just be messing around from what I’ve heard about you, but -”

“I was legit,” Sylvain interrupts, almost dropping the cooler. _I was?_ “Don’t worry, I’m not messing around.” _I’m not?_ “I’ll text you later, okay? Promise.” _Promises aren’t real, you shouldn’t be making those._

But Ignatz, his face lights up in both surprise and in what Sylvain suspects is delight. “Oh!” he says. “Um - okay! Thank you? I think. I really don’t know what to say, I’m so sorry, I’m just not - this is - I’m going to stop talking now. Uh,” he gives a quick wave and turns on his heel to rejoin his friends, “see you around!”

“Yeah,” Sylvain replies after him, confusion spiraling, “see you around.”

He stares at the phone number in his palm and does his best to suppress the swelling giddiness in his stomach. No way. No fucking _way._ That worked? Sure, he’s scored many times before, but he had no idea Ignatz swung that way, meaning there were no guarantees he even had a chance. But now? Now. He pockets the number and hums to himself, almost too pleased at the prospect of texting four-eyes later.

Man. How the tables turn.

“Good for you,” Ingrid drawls, interrupting his victory song. “But don’t let your new date distract you from our deal, got it?”

He hefts the cooler and starts walking alongside her. “Deal?”

“The dishes,” she reminds him, eyes narrowing like a pleased cat, “two weeks’ worth, Sylvain. I’m holding you to it.”

Oh, _crap._ He’d completely forgotten. He gives a sheepish grin and shakes his head.

“I won’t forget,” he says, setting the cooler in the back of the car and glancing up toward the skies bathed in dying pinks and reds. He puts his hands in his pockets and toys with the scrap paper.

_Besides. It was totally worth it._


End file.
